


Absolved we might never be

by zinjadu



Series: Wed to Blight [57]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Aftermath, Dubious Consent, Established Relationship, F/M, Female Friendship, Gen, Heavy Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-22
Updated: 2019-12-22
Packaged: 2021-02-25 22:54:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,780
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21873283
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zinjadu/pseuds/zinjadu
Summary: In the aftermath of the dark ritual, Caitwyn Tabris goes looking for Alistair.  And absolution.  She finds him, but the other remains elusive.Note:This series is fully drafted!  We're so close to the end guys.  Literally three more fics to go.  I'm really happy you were all here for this wild ride.  Much love.
Relationships: Alistair/Female Tabris (Dragon Age), Alistair/Female Warden (Dragon Age), Alistair/Tabris (Dragon Age), Alistair/Warden (Dragon Age), Morrigan & Female Warden, Morrigan & Warden
Series: Wed to Blight [57]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/879681
Comments: 10
Kudos: 20





	Absolved we might never be

The room had no windows, and Caitwyn couldn’t breathe. Not in this dark, closed in space. Stone walls, stone floor, the only softness in the room a narrow bed, and that was barely better than the stone beneath her feet. She had learned as child how to be still, how to hide, and she wished she could hide now, hide from what she had done, what she had begged Alistair to do against every and all inclinations he had save one: protecting her. But stillness was not an option, not while she waited.

It had been too long, she thought. Too long.

There was no one else to turn to. She would not, could not, let anyone else know. That would be cruel, cruel to him to have others know what he did to save her life, to save his own, to bear the brunt of their judgment. Wynne’s disapproval would be palpable, but resigned, while Leliana’s would be sharp. Zevran perhaps wouldn’t judge, but could he resist a jibe? Sten would not be able to resist voicing his disgust, and Oghren would make a joke of it. At least Shale would profess complete indifference. Still, those she called her closest friends, and she had nowhere to turn.

She doubted she deserved such comfort, for what she had done. She who knew what it was to be used, knew and used the man she loved and the woman who was her dearest friend anyway.

Maker help her, what she  _ done _ ?

Unable to remain in that room any longer, she slipped out the door, her sharp ears alert to the quiet sounds of the castle around her. The quick, furtive steps of servants, elves of course, ensuring the army would march come the dawn. The quiet chatter of men, too on edge to sleep no matter how much they should rest before the battle they would soon face. But from the room where she had left Morrigan and Alistair, all was quiet.

On soft feet, she approached the door and laid one hand on the old, aged wood, feeling the grain and years under her fingers. Hesitating, she knew, but she had to risk it. She had to find him, to tell him she was sorry, oh Andraste’s tears, she was so sorry. Hand to the latch, she opened the door, and found only Morrigan, wrapped in a blanket and sitting by the fire, the grimoire that started this whole mess on her lap. She raised her head at the sound of the opening door, and her yellow eyes glowed gold in the firelight.

“From your presence here, I assume he has not returned to you,” Morrigan said, closing the book. Caitwyn stepped into the room and let the door close behind her, shaking her head silently in answer to Morrigan’s statement. As preoccupied as she had been with Alistair’s pain, she had not thought of what Morrigan might be suffering. The other woman had made the offer, after all, and yet, Caitwyn noticed the twist of her lips, the furrow of her brow. Those small tells spoke louder than words that whatever had happened, it had not been easy for her friend, a woman who was sister to her heart.

Closing the distance between them, Caitwyn sank to the floor in front of Morrigan and, against everything her friend had warned her of, she took Morrigan’s hands in her own. The other woman blinked, shocked at the sudden contact. Morrigan did not touch unreservedly. Caitwyn’s hands, dark and small and clever, held Morrigan’s, and the Warden looked into the witch’s startled eyes. Without giving her friend time to recover, Caitwyn raised the back of Morrigan’s hands to her lips and pressed a brief kiss to pale skin.

The gesture communicated more than she could say. I’m sorry, would be rebuffed, and thank you, didn’t seem quite right. At least not right now, so close to after the fact.

“You should not do that, my friend. I am not sure I deserve such… kindness.” For the first time that Caitwyn could remember, Morrigan looked less than confident, less than sure. Displays of emotion did not come naturally to either of them, but they had found friendship behind their respective masks and in sharing their scars. That meant on a night where Morrigan had given her body to save her life, Caitwyn could not let her friend think that she hated her. Far from it.

“You don’t get to decide that, I do.” Caitwyn’s voice held a surety she had once not possessed, Giving Morrigan’s hand one final squeeze, the last words remained unspoken between them.  _ I love you, my friend _ , unspoken but heard all the same in the quiet and the crack of the fire. Then Caitwyn stood in a smooth motion, leaving her friend to whatever sleep she could manage on this night. Sleep was still far off for Caitwyn, because she had yet to find who she had initially sought.

The castle was quieter still, exhaustion overtaking nerves for the soldiers and servants alike, and Caitwyn tried to think through where Alistair might be. Not in his room, not likely to be aimlessly wandering, then she turned her head sharply, ears catching the sound of the low lapping tide of the lake. Not the lake, no, that was dangerous and mad. But there was somewhere else he might be, and like a shadow, she moved through the castle, flying to her love as straight and true as any arrow from her bow.

* * *

Alistair shivered in the chill water of the Redcliffe baths. In one of the lower levels of the castle, fed by the lake and a complicated system of pipes he had once tried to follow as a boy, it was a much-touted feature of Redcliffe Castle. Now, he couldn’t bring himself to leave. He had thought he should clean himself, thoroughly, and had scrubbed himself almost raw with a bristle brush, but he still didn’t feel clean. Stomach clenching, he fought to not throw up again. At least he had managed to get his head out a window before, but there was no getting rid of this feeling, this feeling of being dirty, of being wrong, from the inside.

He had done, done what was required of him, but had tried to not be in his body, to find a place inside, somewhere quiet and safe so his body could—Rushing to the side of the baths, he climbed out and made it to a bucket in time. Empty of bile, he curled up naked on the stone floor. He really was pathetic. Weak. They were all right. He barely managed it, and he had tried, briefly, to think of Cait, of her bright green eyes and how they nearly glowed in the darkness of their tent as he had learned how to gently make love to her. How her dark skin grew warm to the touch, her small, pert breasts were so perfect in his hands, her hips arching up for him as he took his time touching her.

That had made it worse, the horror and revulsion and anger that his own mind heaped upon him. Like it was betraying her even more in some way to think of her while was, was with Morrigan. He should have refused. Dying for her would have been better than this, and he tried to work up the strength to stand. He could at least act like a soldier, like a Warden should, even if he felt wrung out and used.

“Alistair?” came the voice. He knew that voice, that lilt from Denerim’s Alienage, almost musical in and of itself, and he wanted to crawl into a hole and not be seen. Not by her. Maker help him, not by her, not like this.

“Oh, Alistair,” she breathed, tears in her voice. She knelt in front of him, heedless of his weakness, of the physical signs of it close to hand. He felt her hands hover above his shoulders, not quite touching, and he wondered if it was because she couldn’t stand to touch him now, after what had happened.

“I am so sorry.” Her voice lilt broke over her words, breaking for him, and he looked up. What he saw in those eyes, eyes as dark and green as the heart of a forest, he could barely believe. Love, sorrow, regret, but not what he had feared, not disgust, not contempt, not what he felt for himself right now. He reached up, one thumb wiping away the tears that traced down her cheeks, and as if that gave her permission to move, she wiped away his tears with her dark, delicate fingers.

“I tried to get clean, but I can’t.” His throat closed tight as he spoke, squeezing the words away. She breathed in and nodded, a gentle understanding in her eyes. Of course, she would understand. With a sure touch, she took his hands and guided him to stand and then walked him back to the bath.

“Let’s get you clean, then.” Silently, she drew her tunic over her head and tossed it aside, and then started to undo her breaches. Once she was undressed completely, perfect in the low torchlight, she slid into the bath and gestured for him to follow. Gingerly, he lowered himself back into the water, still a bit chill, but less shocking than before. He stood stock still, the water up around his waist, and watched Caitwyn retrieve a bar of soap. He had tried that soap before. It didn’t work.

She returned to him, showing him the soap, and he tracked her deliberate movements. He realized she was letting him see everything she did, not doing anything that might startle or surprise him. Like he had once done. Working up a good lather, she slowly brought the soap to his chest and started to gently scrub him down. She could reach most of his upper body, and had covered his chest, back and arms in a layer of suds, but then she tilted her head thoughtfully when confronted with his head. 

Placing his hands on her waist, he lifted her up and let her work the soap in his hair, and she paid particular attention to his ears. That elicited a huff from him, and though he wasn’t sure how he could find anything slightly funny now, the fact that she just had to wash behind his ears wasn’t entirely without its merits.

Leaning back in his arms, she examined her handiwork, and nodded as if satisfied. She flicked a bit of soap off his nose, and considered him with thoughtful eyes, her dark hair curling about her face.

“I, I don’t know how to say this, but, did you need to be cleaned, ah, anywhere else?” she asked, and he set her down quickly, backing away. She clutched the soap to her chest, her shoulders hunching forward as if to make herself smaller than she was, though she was small to begin with. His breathing quickened, near to panic at the idea of her touching him lower down. That wouldn’t be right, but Maker he wanted to be clean.

“It’s okay, we can rinse you off, and we can go,” she said quickly, but he clenched his jaw and forced the words out.

“Yes, I. That would, I mean.  _ Please _ ?” he asked of her, and together they breathed out slowly. Moving toward the shallow end of the bath, he sat on the steps, the steps the old and infirm used when they came down here. Now certain parts of him were out of the water, accessible. 

Again, she made her moves deliberate, obvious. With careful motions began to clean his exposed legs, starting with his thighs, straightening each leg in turn and washing down the calf and to his feet. Then she caught his eye, as if asking permission where she had never needed to ask before. That had been him, asking, reassuring, holding, gently loving as she learned to accept touch.

Now it was her.

With a feather light touch, she cleaned his manhood, the soap sliding about him. Had this been even hours ago, there would have been a stirring, and he would have reached for her. As it was, there was only leaden lump in his chest, but she did not look repulsed as he still feared. Instead, instead her eyes shone for him. Then it was done. He had been soaped down everywhere by her deft hands, and she took a step back into the deeper area of the baths.

The rest was up to him.

Breathing in deep he let the moist air of the baths fill his lungs, and he closed his eyes before plunging forward into the water. Letting himself sink, he opened his eyes under the water, and saw the fractured outline of Caitwyn silhouetted by the torchlight on the water. Waiting for him. Waiting for him to come back to her. He stood in a burst of movement, water sloshing wildly around him, and he shook his head to clear the water from his ears. Exhaling and sucking in a fresh breath, he perhaps was not clean, but it was a start.

* * *

Caitwyn had a towel ready for Alistair as he walked up the steps out of the baths, and had already wrapped a towel around herself. He took it from her, and she squeezed his hand as he did so. Her heart pattered in relief to see that he did not flinch from her, that he did not avoid her gaze as he had at first. Then he frowned.

“I, um, don’t have clothes. I threw mine away,” he told her, and her heart broke again for what she had done to him.

“I brought some extras down, once I figured out where you would be.” She gestured at the pile of clothes she had let fall from her hands upon seeing him curled up like a wounded animal on the floor. Retrieving the clothes quickly, she handed them to him, and they dressed in silence. She had not been this unsure in his presence in a long time, and it was not her old fears that hounded her now. He had allowed her to help him, but that did not entail that he had forgiven her. All it told her was that he knew he needed help, and he had taken it where he could find it.

“I, I would understand if you wanted to be alone tonight,” she started to say, holding her hands behind her back. She did not want to try him by touching him, not knowing if he could stand to be touched anymore than he already had been this night. But his head shot up, his hazel eyes wild.

“No, I don’t want to be alone. I don’t want to be without you, not tonight, not ever.” His voice was taught and tense, and that was when she realized that he was afraid of what she would think of him. That he was not angry with her, though he would have every right to be. Relief broke in her like a crashing tide, and she reached for his hand. He took it, holding it as if he would never let go, and together they walked through the sleeping castle back to the small, stone room with a narrow bed.

Fully clothed, they curled up together, his head tucked under her chin, forehead to her chest. Her arms wrapped about his shoulders, and he held her about her waist. Nuzzling at his soft, ruddy-blonde hair, she breathed deep, and he trembled against her.

“I love you,” she whispered, and his shoulders shook again. “I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you.” She repeated it over and over, until his breathing became steady, and his shoulders relaxed.

“I love you,” he murmured, and it was as though the strings that had been holding her up had been cut. She had not even been aware of the tension that had drawn her tight until it was no longer there, and they held each other tight until sleep claimed them.

Tomorrow, the morning would break red and hazy, as though the sky itself were bleeding from the fires the darkspawn left in their wake. Tomorrow the army would begin its forced march to Denerim, where they would arrive exhausted and desperate, with one chance to end the Blight before it claimed Ferelden entirely. But tonight, they had each other, and they had one wild, mad, dark hope.

Maker send it would be enough.


End file.
